In the Heart of the Canyon (35 page)

“We’ll figure it out,” she said again.

“Okay” said Amy.

And even Amy thought that particular word, “okay,” sounded different, when spoken for once without anger or sarcasm.

E
veryone had a theory about the dog. Evelyn was sure he was dead. She recalled Lava Falls, and how much water there was. Automatically she computed numerous factors in her head—volume, body weight, time, and temperature—and knew there was simply no way the dog could have survived.

Jill thought he was dead too. Not by any calculation of the odds, but because of her ingrained belief—despite this river trip—in her own personal Murphy’s Law: if something could possibly come along to make her boys forever happy, it wouldn’t. She began to regret not letting the boys get a dog earlier—perhaps if they already had a dog, they wouldn’t have grown so attached to Blender. She wondered how much grieving time she should allow before suggesting they visit the animal shelter in Salt Lake City.

Mark, on the other hand, was convinced the dog had survived, that it was only a matter of time before he caught up with them.

“That dog has nine lives,” he declared, right in front of the boys, which made Jill wince for all its false hope. At the same time, she envied his optimism.

Please, just don’t let us find a body, she thought.

Ruth, who had buried a yardful of pets, was more philosophical. Perhaps because she had seen so many animals come and go; perhaps because she knew it was, after all, just a dog, and at the moment other things—childbirth and degenerative illnesses, to name a few—seemed more compelling. And Lloyd had already forgotten completely about the dog; he couldn’t understand what the fuss was all about. “Dogs aren’t even allowed down here,” he kept reminding people, implying that fourteen people had hallucinated Blender’s existence.

For his part, Mitchell was racked with guilt, and he retreated into morose silence. He kept revisiting the run through Lava. Just when had he let go of the dog? Was it in the V-wave or below? He sat in the hot sun in the back of JT’s boat and stared at his hands, trying to understand how they had released their grip. And why hadn’t he clamped his thighs around the dog more tightly? Why didn’t they think of tying him to one of the lines, for that matter? There were a thousand decisions that Mitchell, in anguished hindsight, would have made differently.

By the end of their last full day, there was still no sign of the dog. They pulled into a camp with a large open beach, and their attention was briefly diverted when Evelyn went off downriver in search of a more isolated site for her last night and came running back, hollering that she had seen a four-foot rattlesnake coiled in the sand; and everybody wanted to see it, which JT didn’t recommend, but they all trooped off anyway to see the beast, cameras in hand, and came back shaken up enough to move their sleeping mats in toward the center of the clearing for the night.

Over dinner they managed to focus on JT’s tales of past mishaps, blunders, and pranks. They all laughed. But during cleanup, when the dog would have been scrounging for scraps, they missed him as though they’d raised him from puppyhood, and they grieved at the thought that they might never know just exactly what had happened to him, on the river.

“Because he might show up in the night,” Sam explained to his father, after Mark asked him why he was keeping his headlamp turned on, even as it lay on the sand.

“Of course,” said Mark.

“Dad?”

“What’s that?”

“If somebody else picked him up, they’d take him to a shelter somewhere after their trip, right? They wouldn’t just keep him?”

Mark said he guessed that any good-souled person would do that.

“So we might find him when we get back to Flagstaff?”

“We might. I don’t want you to get your hopes up, though.”

“I won’t, Dad. Can I leave my light on?”

“Sure,” said Mark, and when he bent down to kiss his son good night, Sam wrapped his arms around his neck and didn’t let go for a long time.

“I hate to give him false hopes,” Jill said when Mark came to lie down beside her.

“What would you tell him?”

Jill thought for a moment, then sighed. “I guess I’d tell him the same thing.” She felt across the sand for Mark’s hand and laced her fingers with his. “But I’d try not to feed things.”

“I don’t think I have,” said Mark.

“No. I don’t think you have, either. You’re pretty sensitive to nuance.”

“You think?”

“Yes, I do,” she whispered.

“Thanks,” he whispered back. “You know, I really do think he’s alive.”

“Keep thinking that, then,” she said, squeezing his hand.

Before going to bed, Peter walked down to Dixie’s boat.

“Hey, Peter,” she said as she restacked gear. “What’s up?”

Peter stayed on the sand.

“Everything all right?”

“Oh sure,” he said.

“Do you need something?”

“No. I just wanted to say thank you.”

“Don’t mention it,” she said cheerfully. “It’s been quite the trip, hasn’t it?”

“I don’t mean it like that, although thanks for that too,” Peter said. “What I mean is, well, maybe you noticed and maybe you didn’t, but I’ve had a crush on you the whole trip. I think you’re one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever known. And you’re a river guide! I was a goner as soon as JT introduced you to us all, back up at Lee’s Ferry.”

Dixie sat down.

“But I’m not telling you this for the reason you might think. I know
you have a boyfriend down in Tucson. I know we’re going to say goodbye tomorrow, and I’ll probably never see you again. But I just wanted to say thank you, for letting me be in love with you for two weeks.”

Dixie fingered the twisted wire horse at her throat.

“That’s all,” said Peter.

Down on his boat, JT settled himself on his sleeping mat. The air was still, and the moon, now in its last quarter, bathed the river in its pearly light. Tomorrow they would row the last few miles to the takeout at Diamond Creek. They would unload the boats; there would be a bus and a truck and a big lunch spread waiting for them. After lunch the guides would load up the truck, and the passengers would file into the bus—

And that would be it. Trip over. Finito.

JT laced his fingers beneath his head. Ordinarily he was always looking forward to the next trip: a few days off, then the mass load-up again, a new list of passengers, introductions, and lessons about the basics of life on the river. Ordinarily he didn’t let himself get too sentimental at Diamond Creek, knowing the river would always be there, knowing that he would always be back.

But a large part of him was feeling way too fragile on this trip. He was afraid to say good-bye to these people, for reasons he couldn’t explain. In the middle of the night, he woke up with a start. His heart was pounding. And a new thought came to him: he was a fraud. Who was he, to think that he could guide people down the river? Oh, he knew the water, he knew the hikes, he knew enough stories and history to write a book. But in the end, he was just a guy who loved the river, who made a pact with the stars every night, who woke up every morning with the current tugging at his soul. For people like him, going down the river wasn’t just going down the river. It was something so much grander, a journey into a simpler time of a simpler soul, and JT suddenly had the feeling that in taking people down the river, he broke something in them, something that perhaps needed breaking but needed reconstruction as well; and while he was good at the breaking part, good at taking them to the other side of chaos, he felt
like he gave them nothing with which to reconstruct themselves after the journey.

Fraud with a wrecking ball.

The takeout at Diamond Creek the next morning went as smoothly as possible. Everyone was as quick to help as they’d been on the first day at Lee’s Ferry—only now they weren’t trying to impress anyone; now they were simply getting the job done, stacking every single piece of gear into neat piles on the rocky beach. When all the gear had been unloaded, they rinsed off the boats, dragged them up onto shore, and opened the valves; and then the boys had an exhilarating ten minutes of flopping about to squeeze out every last cubic centimeter of air.

Jill looked on with dismay as the guides rolled the eighteen-foot rafts into three tight little bundles. Was this all it boiled down to?

“Lunch!” yelled Abo. “WASH YOUR HANDS!”

As people crowded around the picnic table, JT coiled up his ropes and straps and stashed them along with his carabiners in a worn zippered duffel. He was hot and hungry and felt a sudden craving for an ice-cold Coke. He was about to head to the shade of the picnic area when he looked up and saw the kayakers floating down the river. Six toy boats bobbing on top of the sparkling water, followed by the fat mule raft. Even from far away JT could spot Bud, with his full white beard.

As he neared the beach, Bud signaled to him with his paddle, so JT waited. Bud’s kayak glided swiftly toward shore and collided with the pebbly beach. But instead of unhooking his skirt and climbing out, he rested his paddle across the top of the cockpit.

“Señor,” said JT, nodding. Something about the man’s posture disturbed him. “Everything okay?”

“I thought you should know,” he said, squinting up at JT. “We found our life jacket.”

“Your life jacket,” said JT.

“The one we lent you,” said Bud.

“The dog’s, you mean.”

“Right.”

“The green one?”

“Yeah.”

JT felt his mind speeding up. He was already arguing with himself, that it didn’t mean anything, that the dog could have slipped out of his life jacket and still be alive. Why, he’d even thought about this yesterday, the possibility that the dog might have lost his life jacket right off the bat, up there in Lava; it didn’t clinch the issue yesterday, so it shouldn’t clinch the issue today.

“Listen, I don’t know if I should pass this on, but somebody on another trip was talking about a bunch of turkey vultures, back up around Pumpkin Spring,” said Bud. “I don’t know what they were circling.”

JT thought for a moment. “Could have been a dead ringtail,” he told Bud. “Could have been any number of things.”

“It could have,” said Bud. “But I thought you ought to know.”

JT felt his ears begin to ring. He did not want to share Bud’s news with the group. But Mitchell had already spied the kayakers, and he came down to the shoreline holding a messy sandwich.

“Greetings,” he said.

“Greetings,” said Bud.

“You haven’t by any chance seen the dog, have you?”

Just then the mule boat skidded up against the shoreline. There, on top of all their gear, was the green life jacket.

“Hey! That’s—” Mitchell broke off and glanced around at all the faces.

JT tried to draw Mitchell aside, but the word “dog” must have resonated, because instantly the boys came running down. When they saw Mitchell’s face, they slowed to a walk and came to stand by the nose of Bud’s kayak.

JT placed a hand on Sam’s bony shoulder, smooth and warm from thirteen days of sun.

“You don’t have him, do you?” Sam said to Bud.

Bud shook his head.

“That’s his life jacket.”

Bud nodded.

“Well,” said Sam staunchly, “well, it doesn’t mean anything.”

“No, it does not,” said JT, and he could see the boys mind processing the evidence, just as he himself had done. An empty life jacket alone did not equal a dead dog. Bud didn’t say anything about the vultures, and JT decided then and there to offer Bud a free trip down the river, at his convenience, for this little bit of discretion.

By now the other kayakers were pulling in, and JT could tell from their faces that they’d discussed the matter and drawn their own conclusions. One by one, the people in JT’s group came wandering down from the lunch table. A solemn quiet fell upon them as JT explained that the dog’s life jacket had been found.

“It doesn’t mean anything either way,” said JT. “I don’t think anyone should jump to conclusions. On the other hand, I guess we’re just not going to know anything for sure.”

The group waited.

What, do we do a rain dance? JT wondered.

“Nine lives,” Mark murmured.

“Even so …,” said Evelyn.

“Perhaps if we leave a note on the picnic table,” Ruth said.

“Use our phone number,” said Mark.

“Mark, don’t,” Jill said quickly.

“Dogs aren’t even allowed down here,” Lloyd reminded them.

It was Sam who noticed that Mitchell had disappeared. They looked around and finally saw his floppy tan hat bobbing through the tall thickets along the bank downriver.

Then his head vanished, and in another moment they heard the terrible sound of retching. Under other circumstances, there would be speculation of a stomach virus, or too much to drink the night before, or gluttony at the lunch table. Not today.

Sam headed toward the thicket.

“Give him some space, Sam,” Mark called.

But Sam kept going, in search of the man who was most in need of comfort.

T
he road out of the canyon at Diamond Creek is steep, rocky, and deeply rutted from flash floods. Its an eighteen-mile trip that can take an hour, even when weather conditions are good; and after gliding down a river for two weeks, the bumps and jolts can take their toll on a person’s joints.

Abo and Dixie rode in the back of the cab, and JT rode up front with the driver. He was trying to figure out what he would say tonight, when they all met for a farewell dinner at a pub in downtown Flagstaff. He had a pretty standard speech, but this had not exactly been a standard trip.

He thought of getting sick. A sore throat. A stomach bug. He thought of telling Abo that Colin was in town, just for the night. A robber had ransacked his house.

“Hey, Boss,” said Abo from behind. “How much of this trip are you going to write up, when you make your trip report?”

“The whole truth,” said JT. “Nothing but the truth.”